


Incident Report

by dorothy_notgale and Tromperie (dorothy_notgale)



Series: The Boys From the Castle [1]
Category: Lupin III, The Woman Called Fujiko Mine
Genre: Deception, Dubious Consent, Dysphoria, Genderfuck, Homophobia, Identity Porn, Internalized Misogyny, Misogyny, Other, disguises, the 1960s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:43:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8292800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothy_notgale/pseuds/dorothy_notgale%20and%20Tromperie
Summary: Shortly after the death of his protege and the downfall of the conspiracy surrounding the thief Fujiko Mine, the grieving Inspector Zenigata receives a visitor: a beautiful woman reporting a theft of something precious. She must want something from him, but when potential solace appears, sometimes morals bend.There's no fool like an old fool, after all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains content that readers might find disturbing, but its revelation could spoil. If you need more information, jump to the note at the end, where we have listed the remaining potentially triggery content.

It was a trick of the light that fooled Zenigata. That, and a wish to be fooled; there'd been a lot of tricks and flashes lately.

Nothing worse than a cop who wanted to be conned, but there it was. There he was, seeing something familiar in the woman sitting across his desk from him. Seeing someone--different.

She was a beauty, fretting at her handkerchief and telling him the tale of woe that had brought her to the station, and he took her words down dutifully until she began to cry and he shut the door for the sake of her privacy.

Another theft of something precious and rare. At least he still had that rage to fuel and warm him. That empathy.

He lit a cigarette and cracked the window in deference to her light, sweet perfume, and her shoulders shuddered.

"Oh, Inspector," she whispered, pale pink lips forming his title like it was something to be savored. Something that could save her. "I just don't know how to go on. That onyx was my pride and joy, and having it stolen--"

She'd told him all there was minutes ago, but still she lingered as the night fell, and her hand felt cold in his when he clumsily grasped it.

"We'll--I'll find it for you, I swear."

It wasn't Lupin, but fate had a way of twining these things together. Follow the trail of lost treasure, and sooner or later you'd find that cheshire grin at the end. And it was hard to dismiss such a face, with those long eyelashes wet and glittering.

Something had clicked together for him in that hellish castle, something that whirred and ate at his better judgment and his supposedly unshakable certainty: the sight of Fujiko Mine laid low, fragile as any innocent, at the hands of some greater evil; the sight of his only real charge lost to him, face twisted into something vicious --

It's hard for a man to tell what's down and what's up, after a nightmare like that.

"It shouldn't be long," he was saying, when she surged forward and pressed her face against his coat.

"It's been unbearable," she whispered. "You're the only one who listened. You don't know how grateful I am."

"There's no need," he began, ready to mouth words about duty and obligation, spin her a little fiction of an officer unwavering and perfect and so much more than a blind prideful  fool, but she curled against his chest like a new-found kitten rescued from drowning.

"There is a need." Her voice was high and girlish, and so the throb that ran through those words shocked him all the more. "There is a great need, Inspector." Her little hands played up, one slipping inside his coat, and it was _stupid_ to go along with what was probably a lift, probably a trick. A woman this beautiful wouldn't bother unless it got her something...but the small of her back curved in his hand, and her hips were so slim, and she was still crying as he wrapped her up with him in khaki wool.

And he'd made this mistake once before, but he kissed her pretty shell-pink mouth (so innocent, that color) even so, tasting nothing of her but salt mixing with his tobacco.

"I-inspector!" She gasped as though he were already inside her and rubbed against him, inward; she was sniffing at his clothes and his neck, and who knew what her lovely thieving hand was doing.

Disguises and tricks and stolen treasures were all Zenigata had left, at the end of the night.

"Easy there." He was already breathless, too easy a mark when he bothered to let down his guard. His work didn't leave much time for women, no matter how much the higher ups loved to joke about him settling down. As if he could, when honor bound him to seeing the end of Lupin III.

"Please," she kissed his pulse, the bob of his adam's apple, shuddering in almost comical ecstasy when he kissed along her jaw and the delicate shell of her ear. It had to be an act - but if it was, then this woman should be on a stage and not a street corner.

"Please," she repeated. "Let me be of use to you. You've done so much for me."

"Just my duty." Upholding the law -- and there was none against backing her frail body toward the desk, sitting her on the edge of it. None but good taste.

"No," she seemed incensed, suddenly, peppering bruising marks where she could reach beneath the collar of his shirt.  "No, it can't be just that. Not like this."

Overplaying her hand by acting like it should mean something, when all he'd done was write down her words, but her distress was flawless. _She_ was flawless, easily stilled by his hands on her thin shoulders.

"This isn't my duty, Miss James," he said against her forehead, and she keened softly for him.

He felt the wig's edge when he ran his hand through her long black hair, but it didn't matter. This would be what it was, another link in the chain that would one day be the thieves' undoing, and a lovely lie besides.

Her collar was high and modest, her sleeves and skirt long--no hint of exposed flesh from neck to knee, which made it all the more enticing when she spread her long legs for him to stand between and tipped her head back as though offering her throat to a predator.

A 'good girl,' this time, pure as the driven snow. The kind you take home to mother, then wake up to find all the heirlooms gone.

"You're beautiful, Fujiko," he murmured, stealing one hand just beneath the hem of the skirt, toying with just the top button of her blouse. "Did you miss me?"

"Yes. _Yes_ ," and it's a confession, he should stop, but of course she knew what sort of effect she had. Of course she'd know she was safe, when she was perhaps still so fragile and he'd seen the horrors done to her. "Yes, please, Inspector, touch me. I need to be used like that."

"Talk like that doesn't suit you." The curve of her breasts was modest, soft as if muffled by cloth. He started to undo the buttons of her shirt, to end what had to be a painful illusion, but she grabbed his hand.

"Not there." She guided his hand to the small of her back, putting his hand over the concealed hooks in her skirt. A sense of unease tickled the back of his mind.

"I need you." She was arching back, wrapping her lithe legs around his waist and moaning in response to the smallest touches. "I've always, _oh_ ,"

The clothes she was wearing were cheap, worn things, probably stolen from a secondhand shop. She disguised it well, in the dark, but the edges of her sleeves were beginning to fray. His unease intensified.

One thing he couldn't take from Fujiko -- the woman always looked good.

He held the thin, fragile creature in his arms, weightless as a ghost, No more than eight stones, if he was generous. She seemed almost in a frenzy, trembling until it was almost seizing. Her hands shook as she reached for his belt, and once more he clasped her fragile fingers in his.

"I think we'd better get you home."

"I don't have one." The words were obvious, foolishly so--none of these people had homes, with their globetrotting ways. But her voice had an ache to it, like she was feeling a new loss. He stepped back, and she surged forward in chase.

He caught her, and with a quick twist had her cradled like the bride she'd never be.

He'd carried smaller bodies than this, but never one so terribly fragile.

"I meant _my_ home. You can sleep in my bed." Safe. Protected as well as he could. Untouched by all the vileness that had worn a shrewd mind thin as the wrists about his neck.

"With you?" So close, her face was powdered, features subtly altered by different shades of makeup and artful skill. Even paler flesh showed through here and there where the tears had washed it. And even as he held her she flexed, hips working against nothing and smooth legs toned and muscular. "I want you to fill me up, Inspector. I need to be filthy with your seed."

"And then what?" He didn't use a name for the girl nibbling his ear. He didn't want to feel the growing burn, the desire to bury himself inside this broken creature and do what they asked. "Will you vanish into the night, stealing my heart, Thief?"

"Like a franc in my palm," she said while tugging down his tie, and it was only good fortune that landed them in his chair when his knees gave. She seemed to notice nothing wrong, just settled her buttocks firmly in his lap and wriggled. "If I could only--oh, Inspector, I'm hot. Hot and dirty, like you like. It _hurts_."

He knew. How he wished he didn't -- that he could shed his morals in ignorance rather than facing his failures in the flesh. She was so thin, as if she hadn't eaten in weeks. Since that night.

He was hard in spite of himself, and it was a sickness. A punishment for his failures, his blindness. He'd lost sight of those who needed him by holding so hard to his pride.

In the end all his hands would do was shove her to the ground. She landed with a soft gasp, eyes saucer-wide and hurt before she attempted  to crawl to him on her knees, neck craned to look at him as she reached for his belt.

"I can't help you." He admitted it to himself as he slapped those long, strong fingers away.

"It's alright. I can help you," she cooed. He wanted to grab her hair and pull, call and end to the whole charade.

He grabbed her wrists, dragging them both to their feet. "You need to go."

She began to writhe in his grasp, mounting panic twisting her features. "No, no, don't. Don't send me away. I'll be good, I'll do anything you say."

"I'm telling you to go."

"I _have nowhere to go_ ! The river won't keep me, home is snowed over and my foot's too burned to travel, the feathers rustle my ears--just make me again!" He'd known that face for too many and too few years, made of its former childish softness a symbol divorced from the unsettling beauty it grew into. Had felt pride _in_ his pride, proprietary and casual as he might for any well-kept weapon. As a thief might, for a prize soon to be locked away or discarded.

His voice was a harsh croak past the lump in his throat when he tried to answer.

"I never made you, O--"

"Fujiko." The nightmare in his arms interrupted. "Aisha. Or Miss James. Anyone you want."

"I don't _want_ you!" He was lying, and how well she must know it. How much he still felt, as she went limp and forced him to hold her upright or go down with her, crush her questionably virtuous self beneath his weight. Those hard biceps must be bruising blue in his grasp.

"Arrest me."

"What?" This thing had been so beautiful once. A beacon, an image of strength. Purity.

Inhuman.

"I confess, Inspector. I, Fujiko Mine, have committed any number of crimes."

"You're not Fujiko Mine." He meant it as comfort, but she flinched hard. "There's nothing to punish you for." Lies on lies. Whatever else was true -- and who could tell anymore -- his protege had shot a man to death. The punishment for such crimes was clear. For once, he didn't have the stomach to hand it down.

She went still, as if she were dead, and then struck like a shot. Those thin, strong fingers wrapped around his neck, refusing to let go even when he drove his knee into her gut. It was the hold of the dying, determined to take their killer down with them.

"Why," she mumbled, over and over. "Why am I never good enough. Why won't you take me?"

His vision was beginning to darken at the edges. Unsteady, he reached his hand up to stroke her face.

There would be evidence, when they found his corpse--powder and tears on his fingertips, perfume in his coat. She was so _strong_ , even with arms and legs like twigs.

And then, just as the world went black, she let up. He'd fallen, somewhen in that half-hearted fight for his life; his visiting ghost had torn his pants open and was touching him, feeling the painful erectness caused by friction and beauty and asphyxia. Flesh on flesh, and then the skirt hiked up and he struggled to grab hips and prevent what Oscar intended next.

"You can't leave me like this. I've been made into this _thing_ , only good for your needs." Her breathing was so harsh, pretty blouse torn to reveal the edge of that obscene pattern ground into flesh too young to have chosen it willingly. And even against his hands, that body _moved_. It was torture; he wanted to scream.

Instead he rolled them, coming to rest with Oscar's false hair spread out halolike on the carpet, Oscar's legs around him.

He kissed the exposed chest over the sternum, choked back tears because a man shouldn't cry.

A man shouldn't touch his protege like this, shouldn't tear off the rest of the concealing shirt or slip up beneath that deceiving skirt while Oscar babbled in his ear.

His boy was wearing silk panties, finer and more expensive than the rest of the outfit put together. The modest bulge of his dick ruined the fine, pale pink material, the front already damp with a sticky smear.

A father wouldn't do this. A man wouldn't. But what kind of father was he, and what kind of man? Oscar hadn't come to this on his own. He should've been watching. Should've stopped it, sent the boy somewhere. But even he knew what they'd do to boys like Oscar in those nuthouses: lock him away in some room smelling like piss, and shock him until he couldn't remember his own name. They’d kill the abnormality, and the rest of him too.

But if he could do this. Help him get past whatever...fixation. It was one small pebble of sand against the mountain of his mistakes.

He swallowed, cringed at the way the boy he'd raised arched his back and panted at the slightest touch of Zenigata's fingers on the lace hem. Quick and done. Oscar was so out of his mind, he couldn't last longer than a teenager figuring out how to get himself off for the first time.

The warm pink flesh was soft in his hand, too different to even pretend this was some kind of sick masturbatory nightmare. He had to close his eyes, and it did nothing for the throaty moans in his ears.

"Kudasai, k-kudasai, Keibu-sama, Keibu-sama--" He used his mouth instead of his hand to stop the inept Japanese uttered in an accent someplace between French and English, pan-European and no use in finding a child's origin (Oscar had always been most at home in France, stayed sullen and silent at his side on their brief forays to Japan as the language stopped his tongue). A _child_ , his boy had been, with all the pride and potential in the world, and now he was nowhere near an adult even with Zenigata doing this most adult of things for him.

His head spun; he had to come up for air too soon. (Strangulation will do that. His throat hurt, _hurt,_ and not just from the bruising.) And as soon as he was unstoppered, bitter quiet calculating Oscar's words poured out again like wine.

"Fuck me, sir. Please, please, make me a receptacle. Let me feel you on my thighs, let me swallow it--"

"Shut up," he hissed, squeezing too hard in his disgust, and Oscar's big eyes bulged and teared but his voice ceased save for kittenish squeaks.

His grip was too dry, too raw, his movements too fast, but if it hurt Oscar showed no intent of complaining. The heeled shoes, so much like the ones specially made to obscure Oscar's lack of height (or so Zenigata had thought) were scraping against the carpet. That delicate face looked on the verge of death, pale and blotching by turns as he bit his lip and jerked.

Cum coated Zenigata's hand, a few flecks spattering the lapels of his jacket. Oscar was still, staring at the proof of his completion as if he didn't know what it was. Christ, had he really never--was Zenigata guilty of that too?

Soft hands were encompassing his, bringing his palm up to hot, panting lips and licking the mess away. It took the sight of it, the horror of it, precious seconds to reach his brain. There were infinite  too-long moments of allowance before he pulled himself free.

"That's enough!" He stumbled to his feet, his hand coated in a mix of saliva and semen. Oscar was coming to his feet too, touching the fluid on his own thighs as if it were a mystery, an impossibility and not the natural expectation of his body.

Zenigata shucked his coat, unable to bear looking at that naked, underfed form, and threw it to his ruined child. "Here. Cover yourself." It was indecent to go out like that. To exist like that.

The look on Oscar's bony face was--grateful. Transcendent. He wrapped himself in the cheap ten-years-old coat like it was the finest Egyptian cotton sheets, and was still so dazzled.

Unsteady on his feet.

Perhaps it was simply what Zenigata knew lay beneath that coat and skirt that made it seem so dreadful.

"Hai, Keibu-sama." Oscar had been slight before, but never _small_. And after Zenigata's filth, how could those eyes shine so? How could that lithe body and long pinned-on hair still inflame him?

Sickness. This was his _boy_.

"Shall I go home now, or do you have other things you require?" Every part of it was wrong, even as a bony hand slid toward him, groping and generally demonstrating a tragic ignorance of everything it should know by heart.

"Stop." He captured and dragged it from its pleasurable pursuit.

"Yes?" Hope and fear at the fore, the deranged hunger at least quieter now.

"You're not--" Imagine it, taking him home again like before. Imagine what this child would _do_ in Zenigata's home, how he'd twist Zenigata into corruption. Break his pride.

Undo all the good that his existence had represented.

Zenigata couldn't do that to Oscar's memory.

"I'll find you somewhere." Switzerland, perhaps--they had clinics for this sort of thing, though they were expensive. Or Denmark. The Jorgensen woman had been in Denmark. "I'll do right by you, but you're not going home with me."

"You..." His face was confused, then blank. This ghost that had been Oscar had none of his cleverness. His dedication to duty was tainted. The Japanese he'd always spoken haltingly, in comparison to his native French, was butchered. "You won't use me?"

"I'll take care of it." Somewhere far, where he needn't see this wraith. He’d stick in one place, where he could outrun it by chasing after his true calling.

That pretty face, nearly a girl's, twisted again. The mouth was stretched, the eyes almost seeming to pop from their sockets. "I don't need your pity." He held the coat ever closer as his body was transformed, coiled and cornered like prey. "If you won't...I'll break it. This rotten place can burn."

"Dammit, Oscar!" His temper, never well-held to begin with, snapped from the grief of this twisted haunting, and he forced himself back into the role he'd taken to the detriment of all else--the stern teacher, the Boss, the one to publicly dress down his little protege just so everyone would know he didn't play favorites. "Look at yourself. You're a _disgrace_. You shame me with... this." He waved a hand at all of it, the awfulness.

"I'm like what you wanted. That _woman_ ." Did that have to be the one thing unchanged? That disgust? "I have things in my head that show me how--I'm not here to be protected. I'm here to be _fucked_."

"You're here for the guillotine, if you stay!" He could see in his mind how Oscar would stare at him, kneel for him, reject a covering and stretch his fine long neck just to keep Zenigata in sight, the head falling and bouncing and face no more blank after the descent of the blade than before. "Is that what you want? To be dead?"

"Is that what you want?" He thought it was mimicry for a second, before he understood the wariness and the flicker of anger in pretty eyes.

God, it almost was. He almost--no, he _did_ wish that the fire or the explosion or the river had spared Oscar this disgrace.

"I told you." Out of habit he tugged the brim of his hat down to shade his eyes. "I'll take care of it. Someone will handle you."

"But not you."

"No." Never again. He'd lock this mad creature away in an attic, in a living death, and his shame with it. There was justice, and then there was this. The part of him that had always known the law to be the law, always infallible, cracked.

"Then I don't need you." Oscar stood with a pathetic sort of dignity. "Useful things are the only ones worth keeping, isn't that right?"

He didn't flinch. An officer who couldn't do his job had no place on the force--he'd said that, yes. "You're not a cop anymore." A civilian, he could help.

"Worthless trash." That smile was a terrible thing, like a violent slash under the lipstick that remained. Oscar came toward him again,  and as he prepared to fend off another advance the no-longer-boy shoved past.

His wallet was in the coat. All the money he had on him. He let his failure go, staring down at the mess left behind.

The next day, he filed the report of the stolen onyx as Complaint Only.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: Individual wanting sex with a mentor/father figure, attempted sexual assault, brainwashing.


End file.
